Earl Fowlkes grew up in the New Jersey suburbs outside Philadelphia and rooted for the Phillies, but his father and grandfather were die-hard Dodgers fans. Why? Jackie Robinson. “I grew up knowing more about Jackie Robinson than any other player," Fowlkes said, “because they talked to me about him all the time."

Today, Fowlkes is the president and CEO of the Center for Black Equity, a Washington-based umbrella group for national African-American gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender organizations across the United States and Canada. He was on his way to the office Monday morning when he heard on the radio, in between reports on Tim Tebow’s release from the Jets, the news that the Wizards’ Jason Collins came out of the closet in a Sports Illustrated article.

Fowlkes knew what that meant to him, other gay sports fans of his generation and younger, and to the entire LGBT community.

"Jason, whatever team he goes to—and I’m a Lakers fan—I’m gonna support that team," he said by phone Monday afternoon. “Whatever team he goes to, he’ll be a little, miniature Jackie Robinson. Whether they’re basketball fans or not, we have to step up to support him.

“He’s the first one," he continued, growing more excited. “He’s gonna be abused—not on the same scale, hopefully—but he’s our Jackie Robinson. Number 98—knowing how the LGBT community is, they’re gonna be wearing his shirt. We have to. We don’t get many people like that.

“In fact, I might go down to the Wizards store right now to look for one."

As of Monday afternoon, a Wizards jersey bearing Collins’ name and number would have to be special-ordered. And, as Fowlkes pointed out, Collins is a free agent, one who wasn’t a sure thing to be signed for next season even before his historic first-person announcement.

Little of that matters now, Fowlkes said, to him or to gay men and women of all ages who either hungered for an active player to cross that threshold, or who have only the most passing knowledge of sports.

“There are misconceptions about us and sports, that we really don’t like sports, that we only like to go to the bars," Fowlkes said. “But I can have a sports party, watching games, and have 25 people over. I’d have no problem filling up my house with fans who are LGBTs." (In a Q&A in the Washington Blade newspaper in 2010, he said that the stereotype that annoys him most is, “Gay men can’t play sports.”)

Yet within the wider universe of gay people—as well as in the subset of African-American gay men—Collins’ announcement packs just as big a punch.

“There are young gay men and boys, gay people, period, athletes and non-athletes," he said, “who are looking at themselves a little bit differently in the mirror today, because Jason Collins made the decision to step out and be who he is."

Coincidentally, Fowlkes said, he is forming a sports-specific group of his organization, which he founded in 1999 as the International Federation of Black Pride and organized African-American-centric versions of the annual gay pride festivities around the country. He already has brought his causes to the political and entertainment worlds: He once served on President Obama’s LGBT advisory committee, and last year brokered a truce with rapper Wale, who had to reverse himself after canceling a scheduled performance at the D.C. Black Pride festivities.

Collins’ coming out, so suddenly and unexpectedly, boosts his and other gay activists’ efforts on multiple levels, Fowlkes pointed out. It’s crucial that Collins is still active instead of retired, he said, and that Collins is American born, raised and educated. That connects him more strongly to this culture and its subcultures than did former NBA center John Amaechi (American born to a Nigerian father and raised in England), who had been retired for four years before coming out in 2007.

“You can’t discount him. He’s from our community," said Fowlkes, who added, "This is one of the most important things that’s happened to the black LGBT community since President Obama came out in support of marriage equity. The shift among our people has been phenomenal— if the president of the United States says it’s OK, then it must be all right.

“This can be even more earth-shattering ... It’s sports, and it’s basketball. People will be talking about it in the barber shops. People will be talking about it during the NBA playoffs this weekend. They’ll be talking about this for the next several weekends, for a long, long time."

The impact wasn’t lost on non-sports followers in the community, confirmed David Mariner, executive director of the D.C. Center for the LGBT community who acknowledged he doesn’t pay a lot of attention to sports.

“It’s always important when anyone comes out and lives their truth and reality,’’ Mariner said, “so I’m incredibly happy for him and wish him the best.” He also resides in an ideal city in which to come out—something Collins pointed out in his Sports Illustrated story, saying that being traded from the Celtics to the Wizards in February played a role (“the political significance of coming out sunk in," Collins said).

“There are always issues affecting the LGBT community here in D.C.," Mariner said, “revolving around hate crimes, violence, discrimination and the like. So whoever comes out as gay and proud has our support, and they make things much better for all."

Mariner wasn’t aware of the significance of Collins’ number choice, which he’d actually kept from the public until the article. When Fowlkes saw the reason, it struck him immediately: it recognized the infamous murder of Matthew Shepard in 1998.

That, Fowlkes said, is why he envisioned “98” taking on the significance for future generations as “42” does today.

“I know a lot of people who are into sports," he said, “people who have said, ‘I was a Phillies or Eagles fan before I knew I was gay, even before I knew I was black, and I didn’t want to give that part of my life up.’ "

The blending of multiple forces—acceptance into mainstream society, into sports culture, into African-American life and all the combinations thereof—has Fowlkes eager with anticipation, albeit with concern and even some dread. But that comes from the seismic shift at hand.

“This is about black pride, too. I’m proud as a black man," he said. “We’re always doing it for everybody else. Rosa Parks didn’t just do what she did for black people, she did it for all people who were oppressed. Jackie Robinson didn’t just open the door for black people, he did it for Latinos, Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, all dark-skinned people, Japanese, all Asians, everybody."

The leap from 1940s baseball, to 1950s Jim Crow buses, to the NBA in 2013 was an easy one for Fowlkes. “This," he said, “changes everything forever."